


One Good Thing About The Blight

by Dandelionish



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Adventure, Alistair-Centric, All the origins live, Dragon Age: ALL the Origins, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandelionish/pseuds/Dandelionish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every origin survives the Joining, and Alistair has to get them to fight darkspawn instead of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Good Thing About The Blight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to Bioware et al. This is a non-profit endeavor, perpetrated only for the chance to see if anyone will read about seven OCs. 
> 
> For Lisa, who encouraged me and listened patiently to all my ramblings about this fic that I assured her would someday exist, no really. Thanks for all the support. I never could have finished this without you!
> 
> And now, without further ado:

**~~Alistair's Army~~ **

**~~Eight Wardens Walk into a Blight. The Archdemon Says "Ouch."~~ **

**~~Seven OCs are Too Many~~ **

**~~Dragon Age: ALL Origins~~ **

**One Good Thing About The Blight**

 

After Daveth died, Alistair was worried that no one else was going to brave the Joining. He and Duncan were going to have to kill everybody, there would be no new Wardens, darkspawn would rule the world, and everything would be terrible.   

But then, without prompting, Aeducan marched up to Duncan and grabbed the chalice.  As she drank, she glared at the assembled Wardens-to-be, as if daring them to question her strength. Even as the darkspawn blood did its work, she dug her solid heels into the dirt and so remained upright.  Alistair wasn't sure if dwarves weren't affected as strongly or if Aeducan simply refused to let a little thing like an ancient high-fatality ritual ruin her impression of an angry bull.

Cousland was less steady.  With trembling hands, he held the chalice as far away from his body as possible. Before drinking, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the lip of the cup. It seemed silly to worry about contamination from other Wardens when you were drinking tainted blood. Though, Alistair supposed he shouldn't complain. At least Cousland made it through the Joining without Alistair having to stick a sword into him. Less murder was always a positive.  

As Cousland's eyes rolled back in his head, Surana turned to Amell and said,  "You can go first."  

"No, no.  After you," Amell replied.  

"I insist." Surana edged away from Cousland's twitching form.

"I insist twice as hard," said Amell. Inching backwards, he tried to slink behind Surana. She coughed and stepped back further, putting him in front of her again.    

This exchange soon descended into shoving.  Duncan didn't actually _want_ to kill anyone, Alistair knew, so he was apparently prepared to pretend this wasn't resistance for as long as he could.  Alistair stood at his side, trying to look imposing and serious. He had a sinking feeling he wasn't doing a good job of it.

At last, Duncan cleared his throat.  " _Someone_ has to go next," he said.  

There was an ominous pause.  Amell glowered at Surana.  Surana scowled at Amell.  

"I can? Um, if that's okay?" Tabris asked.  She spoke almost too softly to be heard, but Duncan seized upon her, a sly old mabari who knew that rustling in the bushes meant rabbits. He all but threw the chalice at her.

While Tabris writhed on the ground, the pitch and desperation of Amell and Surana's increasingly obvious arguing ratcheted up to just below "caught the attention of a genlock emissary" level.  Duncan shook his head and helped the newly-awakened Cousland to his feet.  

"Congratulations, you're a Warden. Knew you had it in you. Next!" Duncan said. He always wanted to get this part over with as fast as possible. So, Alistair scanned the remaining recruits for a likely nominee.

From what he could tell, somebody was going to have to tackle Brosca.  Her gaze darted between Jory and Daveth's corpses and the disturbance that Amell and Surana were making, like she was calculating a way to make a break for it. Alistair tensed. _Should I stop her now or wait?_ he wondered.He turned to Duncan, searching his face for a sign.

But Duncan's expression was unreadable. A deep crease furrowed his brow, and that could mean anything.  Maybe he was thinking about what he would have for dinner tonight. Alistair tried to beam a psychic message to him. _Tell me what to do._

Duncan didn't respond. Instead, he took a few careful steps toward Brosca. He moved slowly but with resolution, the way you would approach a dangerous animal.

"Only two ways this can go, and you know the other one," Duncan told her. He patted the sword at his side. "What's it going to be?" He stared her down and offered the chalice casually, like it was a mug of ale.  To Alistair's surprise, Brosca shuffled over, muttering some inventive and most certainly untrue things about Duncan's parentage and the Wardens as an organization. But, she knocked back the darkspawn blood in one gulp.  

"Satisfied?" she snapped. A dribble of blood ran from the corner of her mouth to her neck.

 "Very," Duncan said.  Brosca fell to her knees, gagging.

"A bit of a gamble, but it worked out nicely," Duncan spoke quietly, so that only Alistair could hear him.  Alistair tamped down a swell of pleased pride. _I'm the one he tells things to! Me!_ He fought the urge to jump up and down. With as much gravitas as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't very much, he nodded. It _had_ gone better than expected. He supposed they could have done without the swearing, though.

After that, Duncan grabbed Amell, who was closer, and said, "Come on, then.  Best to get it over with."  Amell choked it down while Surana smirked.  She seemed to take special pleasure in the fact that he was unconscious when her turn came around.  

Mahariel stepped forward last, straight-backed and serious, not looking at anybody.  He hadn't put himself forward, but he hadn't tried to avoid it either.  As he collapsed, the expression on his face perfectly conveyed, "it figures this would happen to me."  

 

~

 

That was how Alistair ended up shepherding _seven_ brand-new Wardens to the Tower of Ishal.  Though he had originally protested being kept off the battlefield, he was now starting to understand why Duncan might have sent them on this mission.  

When they saw the first flaming rock hurtle across the bridge, Tabris gave a little shriek and covered her head.  

"You call yourself a warrior?" Aeducan said.  

"I-I do!" said Tabris, drawing herself up even as she quavered.  "I'm sorry.  I was, I was, startled."  

"You should pay more attention now that we're in the battlefield," Cousland said.  Then a piece of debris sailed through the air and hit him.  "My sleeve!" he wailed.

"Are you hurt?" Alistair asked.  

"It's ruined!" Cousland batted at his arm.  "Scorch marks are impossible to repair!"

"Like that one's ever fixed his own clothes," Brosca said to Mahariel, who didn't respond.  

"A good glyph of warding could prevent things like this," said Amell.

"You and your glyphs," sniffed Surana.  " _I'll_ set up a misdirection hex.  Nothing would be able to touch us then."

"Glyphs are faster than hexes," Amell said.

"Not the way you cast them," Surana shot back.   

"We just have to light the beacon. We _just_ have to light the beacon," Alistair said to himself.   Then, more loudly, he called:  "Okay, er, everyone? We're going to need to focus now.  Across the bridge.  Come on."  He made a shooing motion, like the other Wardens were a gaggle of particularly disagreeable geese.     

No one paid him any attention.  Surana and Amell continued to argue over hexes versus glyphs, and of course neither of them did anything helpful.  That was mages for you.  Not that the others were much better.

"I don't like this things-falling-from-the-sky business," Brosca was saying. "You never got that under good solid stone.  What do you do about it? Any of that mystic Dalish wisdom for us, eh?" She jabbed Mahariel in the ribs with her elbow.  

Mahariel stiffened, which must've been painful because Alistair had seen planks of wood that didn't stand as straight as Mahariel did.  " _My_ people are not in the habit of throwing flaming rocks at each other.  This problem seems more like something _you_ should handle," Mahariel said.

"What, just 'cause I'm a dwarf I should know everything about rocks?" Brosca said.  

"Well," said Cousland, "dwarves do know about stone, right? And... dirt..."  He fingered the scorch mark on his sleeve.  Brosca looked about ready to launch herself at him.  From the corner of his eye, Alistair could see Aeducan's hand creep toward her axe.  

"Let's move on," Alistair pleaded.  "As much fun as a race war would be, we have a job to do."  

"If Ser Prissy is done lamenting his clothes," Aeducan said, with a tilt of her head.

"I'll have you know this armor's been in my family for centuries," Cousland said.  

Aeducan snorted, as though measuring time in mere centuries was for mayflies.

"Your _family_ \--" Aeducan started, and Alistair was never the most perceptive person, but even he could tell that the look on Cousland's face meant trouble.

"Don't you say anything about my family," Cousland said, quiet and dangerous.  

Tense silence.  Aeducan once again looked ready to go for her axe.  Cousland wouldn't or maybe couldn't back down.  An uncomfortable prickle of familiarity twinged at the back of Alistair's mind.

Once, when Alistair first joined the Wardens, there were two men who kept getting on each other's sore spots.  One tossed and turned in his bunk all night so nobody could get any sleep, the other slurped his breakfast too loudly... that sort of thing.  It hadn't ended between them til they got into a huge bare-fists fight right in the middle of the camp.  At first, Alistair thought Duncan was going to break them up and give them a stern talking-to.  Duncan's stern talking-tos were legendary; without raising his voice or even saying very much at all, he could make you feel like you were a scrawny nine-year-old again.  But, Duncan had let the two men fight until both of them were bruised and bleeding, and Alistair became alarmed.

"Shouldn't someone step in before we have to bury the bodies? A grave would ruin the lovely view," Alistair had said.

Duncan shook his head and put a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Sometimes, people need to have things out before they can put them to rest.  If they were fighting with swords, well, that'd be a different matter, but no one will be killed here."  Sure enough, after recovering with the healers for a while, the  two men grew to tolerate each other, and later even became friends. Duncan always knew what to do.  

Of course, Alistair couldn't let Aeducan and Cousland have it out here, with the battle going on all around them.  And the look on Cousland's face was so much grimmer than those of the brawling men had been....  How had Duncan known that the two men wouldn't kill each other? Was there a trick to it? Either way, Cousland and Aeducan weren't backing down.  Alistair cleared his throat, knowing that it was down to him now.

But then, Brosca's gruff voice rang out.  "Families? Let the stone take 'em," she said. Oblivious cheer was writ all over her upturned face, like she was at a picnic and not in the middle of the battlefield.  "You can't do anything with families. Mostly, they'd kick ya as soon as look at ya."  She was staring at the sunset and didn't see Cousland's glare. "Look at those colors! It's so big!" she pronounced, with what seemed to be genuine wonder.  

"Clearly, you sun-touched fool," snorted Aeducan, unimpressed. "It's the sky.  You can't depend on it."

"Kind of pretty though, for all you might fall into it," Brosca said.   

"You can't fall into the sky, " Surana said. "The writings of Enchanter Brahma state that people and objects are naturally attracted to magical forces within the earth. "

"A gross simplification from a gross simpleton.  You're forgetting about Isaiah's _The Thaumaturgical Principles of Natural Philosophy,_ which posits that--" Amell droned on.  At least Cousland looked more bored and less murderous, Alistair decided.

"Come on, this way," Alistair coaxed the group.  With a lot of dodging and arguing, they managed to cross the bridge and gather in the shadow at the base of the tower.

"Hmm... no guards.  That can't be a good sign," Alistair said.  This later turned out to be an understatement.  

At first, the place seemed empty.  Amell trotted at Alistair's side, swinging his staff.  He was saying, "This is fascinating.  The Tower of Ishal is a historical relic! Think of all the things we could learn. Back at the time of its building-- "

"Can we skip the history lecture?" Brosca cut in.

"He's a terrible show-off," Surana said. "Once, when we were being instructed in the proper use of elemental magic, he--"

"Don't you think it's a bit _odd_ that there isn't anyone else about?" Alistair interrupted, trying to get them back onto the small matter of the battle raging outside.

"We'd better get looking for them, then," Cousland said, striding forward.  

Mahariel barred Cousland's progress with an outstretched arm.  

"What do you think you're doing, elf?" Cousland said.  He inspected his sleeve as though Mahariel's touch could have somehow further defiled it.  Meanwhile, Mahariel pointed to something on the ground.

"Well, do you regularly go around pawing at people or do you have an explanation?" Cousland said.  Mahariel shot him an annoyed look, similar to the way Alistair had seen the Chantry sisters stare down initiates who were particularly slow at memorizing the Chant of Light.

"It's a trap," Mahariel said, when it became clear he would have to use his words like a mere human.  He pointed again, and now that Alistair knew what to look for, he could make out the thin lines of a tripwire.

They all endeavored to step over the wire, but Tabris, struggling in ill-fitting armor, stumbled at the last moment, catching the tip of her boot on it. Then, a torrent of grease gushed across the floor as a genlock emissary hurled fireballs at them. Which was not Alistair's idea of a good time.  The worst of it was that Surana only gasped and said, "Oh, what excellent form!" instead of doing anything to put out the flames.  Amell was similarly occupied with pointing out all the ways the genlock's technique was rubbish that only an imbecile would find impressive.

Cousland stamped his boots in the grease uneasily.  "This isn't exactly dignified," he said. Glaring at his sole, he attempted to wipe off some grease with the back of his hand.  All he got was a greasy hand for his troubles, which seemed to double his distress.  He made to wipe the hand off on his armor, but then seemed to realize that this would sully his breastplate.  

"Keep your head up and fight!" Aeducan barked at him.  Alistair was inclined to agree.  

They were a ragtag bunch and their fighting style probably didn't even count as a style, or, in some cases, as fighting.  It was more like everyone individually trying not to be killed. When Duncan commanded a unit, each Warden had a specific role to play. They'd lay out strategies in training, and even the newest Warden could depend on Duncan's booming voice projecting orders across the grounds.  

Alistair couldn't think of any orders more helpful than "don't die," which no one seemed to appreciate.  He wondered how Duncan managed to know what everyone else was doing in the middle of battle, when the darkspawn pressed in on all sides.  The best Alistair could do was cut the enemies surrounding him down, and then move on to the next batch.

Through pure luck, they managed to press through the darkspawn, running past a few of them until they reached the top of the tower. This room, like the first, was suspiciously empty. Still, the open air felt good after the smoke of the grease fire and the cloying smell of blood and darkspawn from the tower's interior.  There were supposed to be a few torches up here, but Alistair could only spot one, leaning up against a wall.

He decided it was best to light the beacon while they could and rush out of here to join the battle.  "There's the torch," said Alistair, pointing to it.  He might as well have said, "there's the last scrap of meat," to a bunch of starving mabari.  

"I'll do it," said Cousland.  He reached for the torch.

Aeducan barred his way.  "You wouldn't want to get your hands dirty," she said, shoving past him.

"Must you two fight all the time?" asked Surana.  

"That's a lot coming from you," said Aeducan.  

"Exactly," said Amell.  Shooting Surana a superior look, he leaned toward Aeducan and stage whispered: "She can't keep her nose in her own business, either.  Once, when the First Enchanter was in a private meeting, she --"  

"I was ten!" Surana yelled.  

"We don't have much time," Alistair said.  Over the side of the tower, he could see the battlefield, the tiny figures of Wardens fighting for Ferelden. _That's where I should have been_ ,  he thought. If they hurried, there would still be time to get there.  Probably, Duncan would leave some darkspawn for him to kill.  "It doesn't matter who does it."

"Figure I can light a torch as well as anybody," Brosca said.

Aeducan snorted.  "Let's not settle."  

Skulking against the wall, Mahariel shrugged and waited.  They could complete their mission or not and it was all the same to him, apparently.   

While arguments waged, Tabris picked up the torch.  "Is this all right?" she asked.  Tabris asked that a lot.  She looked back over her shoulder at Alistair.

"Yes, great, excellent torch-holding skills, top marks," Alistair said, glancing between the warring Wardens beside him and the battlefield below.  "Now light it."

"Um," she said.  "I don't quite know if...should I maybe...wave it into the fire? Or..."

Alistair never got the chance to ask how a presumably grown woman had gone through life without knowing how to light a torch.  At that moment, a horde of darkspawn burst up through the door with an ogre, _an actual ogre_ , at their heels.

Tabris squeaked, fumbled for her sword, and dropped the torch.

Later, Alistair decided the torch must've gotten shunted away somewhere, maybe crushed beneath the torrent of darkspawn.  Perhaps it rolled under Amell's feet and that was why he was slow to begin casting spells. Perhaps it tripped up a darkspawn just in time to save Brosca's life.  Later, Alistair would think a lot about that torch and what might have happened to it.  He would wake in the night sweating, with the sound of the torch hitting the floor ringing in his ears, but at the time he barely noticed it once it left Tabris's hand. There was only the fight.  

Swords clanked and spells lit up the air so that everywhere was light and noise and the stench of tainted blood--both theirs and the darkspawn's.  Alistair wasn't prepared to admit how much of the blood was theirs.

They weren't prepared for the ogre, either.  Later, Alistair would think, if it had been the darkspawn alone then maybe things could have turned out differently.   But these kinds of thoughts would crop up about every aspect of that day, so it was hard to be sure if it would have made a difference.

Finally, Alistair found himself pressed against a wall, beaten back by the darkspawn. Once again, no one displayed even a passing acquaintanceship with formation or tactics.  Each was fighting his or her own private battle.  

"Anybody have a plan?"  Alistair shouted as he slashed at the darkspawn.  "This is turning out to be more involved than expected."

"Keep on fighting," came Aeducan's immediate reply, her voice booming over the noise.  

"Don't know about that," called Brosca, from the opposite direction.  "Looks like a, whadyacall it, a _tactical retreat_ would be the thing for it."

"We can't abandon the rest of the Wardens in the middle of battle, " yelled Cousland.

"We'd never make it out anyway. There are too many of them," Brosca yelled back.

"Could try." Mahariel's voice was barely audible, as he was nearly buried in darkspawn.  He had a bow slung over his back, but it was little use in this kind of close fighting and he was clearly not as adept with a knife.

"Mages? Is there anything, er, magical that you could do?" Alistair asked.  If Amell and Surana could at least get rid of the ogre, they all might've had a chance at living through the day.

"I'm almost completely drained," called Surana.

"Me too," admitted Amell.  That was just like mages.  Always tapped out when you needed them.  

"Huddle for tactics, maybe?" Brosca yelled, darting between the ogre's legs and appearing at Alistair's side.  "Can darkspawn understand us?" She ducked behind him, and he had the unpleasant inkling that he was being used as a meat-shield.  

"I doubt it.  They're worse than the casteless," Aeducan said, from a few feet away.  

"Might still be one up on highborn idiots who can't tell their arseholes from lyrium mines."  Brosca probably would have raged more if she hadn't been preoccupied with staying alive.  

"One can't be too careful, though," Cousland said. "Everybody over here!" He slashed a genlock in the face and, in one smooth motion, shifted towards Brosca.  

"I don't think I can!" Tabris yelled, apologetically.  Three darkspawn had her pressed against a wall.  Only Tabris could yell apologetically when cornered by three darkspawn.  

"Are you a warrior or are you a nug?" Aeducan called to her. "Fight!"  

Alistair looked up in time to see Tabris lash out with her sword.  Her formation was shaky, and her strength was clearly fading.  Then, the darkspawn in front of him occupied his full attention.  He tried to dispatch them quickly.  A high scream followed by a telltale "I can't quite...!" spurred him on further.

"Oh, for the love of the Paragons," he heard Aeducan mutter.  From between the ranks of darkspawn, he caught a glint of an axe as someone, presumably Aeducan, bulled through reams of darkspawn.  "Put some force into it next time!" Aeducan yelled, as she sliced the darkspawn in pieces.  

Not to be outdone, Cousland cut a path toward Amell and Surana, who sagged back to back in a flagging bubble of magic, darkspawn closing in on all sides.  With his sword in his teeth, Cousland grabbed Amell by the back of his robes and hurled him over the bodies of the fallen darkspawn, towards Alistair and the gathered Wardens.  Surana would likely have gotten the same treatment had she not made a limping sprint for safety as soon as the darkspawn were clear.

"Is that everyone?" Alistair panted, mostly to himself.  He counted as best he could while still fighting back the oncoming darkspawn.  They could hardly maintain this corner of the tower.   The only reason the ogre hadn't already ripped them to shreds was that there were so many darkspawn it barely had room to move.

"What now?" asked Brosca.  

"Focus on getting out," Mahariel said. "Forget the ogre and forget winning. "

Cousland and Aeducan puffed up, but their faces were haggard.  Cousland had been thrown around by the ogre and his armor was battered.  Probably, lifting Amell had taken it out of him too.  Aeducan was like a stone that had been worn down by a river.  

"I don't even know if we can make it to the door," Surana said.  "And then we'd have to fight our way down the tower, and then..." She sounded too exhausted to go on.

Alistair glanced toward the door.  More and more darkspawn poured through it.  At this point, they might actually be able to make some sort of battlement from the bodies.

"Is there anything magic can do about it? Maybe, a spell to get us down from here?" Alistair asked. He looked toward the edge of the tower.  He couldn't see directly through the darkspawn, but he knew it was a long, long way down.  

"We can't fly," Surana said.  Brosca grunted as she dodged a darkspawn axe.  

"I could cast a spell to make us resistant to damage, but I don't know if it will be enough to protect someone from jumping off the tower.  And I certainly couldn't do it for everyone at once," said Amell.

"No, that would be much too hard..." Surana put her hand to her forehead.  "I've got maybe enough mana to put the current wave of darkspawn to sleep, but that doesn't answer for what would happen when more come through the door."

"Maybe a glyph of repulsion would gain us some time..."   Amell mused.  By this time, both mages had left off fighting, leaving everyone else to form a protective ring around them.

"Not enough.  There are too many of them.  The only solution is to get down from this tower, but we really can't just jump off the-- Or!  Or, what if, the glyph of repulsion was on the ground?" Surana failed to notice two darkspawn coming at her left. Alistair knocked them back with his shield.

"A glyph is always on the ground," Amell said, in the way one would explain that the sky is blue to a slow child.  

"No, I mean, on the ground outside of the tower.  If  the glyph was large enough and a person jumped directly into it, it could render that person temporarily airborne."

"Well, the influence of the glyph only extends ten or twenty feet above the markings..." Amell said.

"Yes, but it would redirect the force of the fall, and then being thrown from ten or twenty feet would be much more survivable... if a healer was nearby and there was something to catch a person in..." Surana said.  

Alistair wasn't following at all, but Mahariel said: "Like a silk hood?"  

"Yes, but who's carrying that?" Surana said.

"I am," Mahariel said.  

"Into battle?" Aeducan said, appalled.

"It's from home," Mahariel said.  Alistair remembered hearing of the sails on the Dalish landships.  For humans, they were a warning to stay away, but he supposed Mahariel would find them comforting.

"But what purpose does it serve _here_?" Aeducan persisted.

"Anything we want to keep, we have to travel with in case we have to leave in a hurry," Mahariel muttered.

"Fine, but how will we get the glyph onto the ground in the first place?" Amell grumbled.  "We still can't fly, Surana."  

"We can both use the shielding spell on me and I'll jump down and draw the glyph," Surana said.  

"That's insane! Plus, if anything I should be the one to jump-- I'm much better at shielding spells than you are, not to mention repulsion glyphs and _healing spells_ , which such a dangerous venture would surely require. This is all creation magic, and that's my specialty, not yours!"

"Exactly," Surana said.  "My concentration will be shot anyway, so you have to maintain the shielding spell.  I can draw a passable glyph, assuming I survive the fall--"

"A huge assumption, considering shielding spells aren't exactly designed for this!"

"Improvise on the fly. I know you can," Surana said.  "You were always jumping into things in the Circle--"  

"But now it's you jumping _off_ of things, and let's not forget who was the one who always made the plans--" Amell started.

"Okay, maybe this part of the discussion can wait," Alistair panted.  They lost another few inches of ground to the darkspawn.  "It seems like we have a plan..."

"A crazy plan," put in Brosca.

"I think it's the best we've got," Tabris said.  

They fought their way to the edge of the tower, a slightly easier task now that they were all moving towards the same goal. When they got there, everyone stood shoulder-to-shoulder to guard Mahariel, Amell, and Surana.  Mahariel took out his sail and Surana put it in her pack.  Then, Mahariel joined the line of defense.

"We'll hold them off as long as we can," Alistair said.

"I'll stay until the rest of you have gone down," said Cousland.

"Me too," Aeducan said.  "I can hold out longest.  The thing will be to get the mages down first so we don't have to protect them while they work the shielding spell."

"No," said Amell.  "We'll be too far away then.  I'll have to go down last.  And someone strong will have to go down with Surana-- she can't hold the sail by herself and what if there are darkspawn down below, interfering as she draws the glyph?"

"Can you shield two at a time?" Tabris asked. A hurlock blocked her sword.

"If they're close together, or even better, touching, it shouldn't be a problem. It's maintaining a larger area that will be the strain," Amell said.  

"Well, you ain't getting me to be the test subject for this experiment," Brosca said.  

"I'll do it," Alistair said, and almost immediately regretted it.

"You'll have to carry me," Surana announced.  

"Eh?" Alistair said.  Cousland chuckled as his sword clanked against a darkspawn's breastplate.

"That way we'll take up the least amount of space," Surana explained.  

"Also, you might be able to break her fall, should it come to the worst," Amell said.

"So I'm to be some kind of human shield?  I don't know if I should be insulted by that," Alistair grimaced.  

"She's the one that has to draw the glyph," Amell rushed to say, "and if healing is necessary it's best she's in as good condition as possible.  Not that I would wish being healed by _Surana_ on anyone, but it's better than nothing."

So that was how Alistair found himself with his back to an army of darkspawn, clutching a woman, and standing on the edge of a tower, waiting to jump off.  

"Shields are active," Amell said. Alistair and Surana were surrounded by a thin blue glow.

"Pull your arms in, but don't tense up," Surana advised, pressing herself against him.  He was already sweating and she felt very warm. In fact, it was as though he could feel her right through his armor, though he knew that was silly. Just his luck that the first time a woman put her arms around his neck, he'd be about to jump to his death.

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?" Alistair said. He tried to look anywhere but at Surana, but that only left him with the encroaching darkspawn or the foot of the tower far below.

"On count of three," Amell said.  "Then Surana and I will strengthen the shield as much as possible."

"Still leaving room for the glyph and maybe some shielding for the rest of us, I hope," Cousland called out.  

"But it'd be nice if you could strengthen it enough so that I won't be crushed," Alistair added.

"I will keep that in mind.  One... two...three!" Amell said.  

Trying his best not to think about it, Alistair stepped off the tower.  There was a horrible rush of air as his stomach did somersaults.  Light and color streaked past. Then, all too soon, the hard ground rose up to meet him.

Alistair knew immediately that he had broken his leg.  The pain was intense, but not unfamiliar.  He'd broken his arm while training with the templars and he'd broken his collarbone as a boy, so he realized what the crack meant as soon as he felt it reverberate up his thigh.  

The real issue was that they were surrounded by darkspawn.  

There weren't many of them-- most were out on the main battlefield or, apparently, pouring into the Tower of Ishal, but there were enough to force Surana and Alistair against the tower.  Alistair was standing, but barely.  It was lucky the wall was there.  The wall was his friend.

"I need to conserve mana for the glyph," Surana murmured.  When he glanced at her face, her eyes were wide and panicked, her hair plastered to her forehead in sweaty wisps.  

"I'll push the darkspawn back," he said, with more confidence than he felt.  "Maybe you could hit some of them with your staff?"

He tried not to put pressure on his leg, but that was a losing battle.  Still, stumbling, using the wall as a pushing-off point, he took down two darkspawn.  Surana managed to knock one down with her staff, and he delivered the killing blow.  Clearly, these weren't the cream of the darkspawn troops.  

"I have to start drawing. You keep watch," Surana said.

"Right," Alistair said.  He wanted very badly to sit down, but knew that if he did he wouldn't be able to get back up.  So, he propped himself up against the wall and watched for darkspawn.

Surana worked quickly, sketching out a huge glyph in the dirt.  He guessed the size was to give the others some margin of error as they fell.  With a hum of magic, the glyph lit up.  

"Take...take one end of this sail," Surana said.  She was shaking.  "If I've calculated the trajectory correctly, they, they should end up being thrown over this way, away from the tower."  She shuffled behind the glyph.  

"This might not be a good time to tell you that I've broken my leg," he said.

There was a pause.  

"I'm not, _very much_ _not_ , a healer.  If it was an emergency I'd---but I need the mana to maintain the glyph and send the signal, so I don't want to risk--" Surana babbled.

"Just help me over there," he said, pitiably. "I can manage walking if I have something to lean against."

"Fine."  Shakily, like two injured people sharing a crutch, they made their way to the jumping-off point.  Surana put out a small bubble of light to let Amell know they were ready.  

The first down was Mahariel.  He bounced off the glyph as planned, then landed on the sail with an almost comical expression of surprise. At least he was able to help Alistair hold it up so Surana could concentrate on maintaining the glyph.

Next came Tabris.  There was a bad moment where the kickback from the glyph sent her a hair too close to the tower, but she got out of it with nothing worse than a bloody shoulder. She joined the sail-holding party but wasn't strong enough to take over from Alistair.  

He was relieved when Cousland descended with Brosca clamped to his waist like a leech.  

"It was the only way she'd go down," Cousland explained.  When he took over sail-holding duty, Alistair propped himself up against the friendly wall.

He watched Brosca dive down on all fours to rub her cheek against the ground. "That took years outta my life," she said. "Dwarves are definitely not meant to be off good solid dirt." A smear of that good solid dirt now decorated her face, but she looked so pleased Alistair didn't mention it to her.

Soon, another dwarf was reunited with the dirt. Last down was Aeducan, with a tapped-out Amell slung over her shoulder. As he was so much taller than her, his head dangled behind her knees.  His staff caught on the sail and had to be disentangled.

"There were too many of them up there. He couldn't last alone," Aeducan said.

"That's ridicul--ridicu...silly,"  Amell said, struggling to lift his head.  

"Look at you.  You've drained yourself dry," Surana taunted.  "Can you even walk or will someone have to drag you?"  This was rich from someone who was wobbling on her feet.

Aeducan dropped Amell as if he was a sack of particularly squishy potatoes.  His legs bowed beneath him as he tried to stand, but eventually he steadied himself and stumbled toward Surana.  "I can still move faster than you," he said.  

"Doubtful," Surana said, but tensed. Possibly, she was ready to have a footrace right there, with both of them reeling around like drunkards.  Meanwhile, Alistair felt his broken leg calling out.  

"I don't want to put a damper on this wonderful argument, but could someone heal my leg?' Alistair asked.

Amell's lips pinched. His face screwed up in concentration. With trembling hands, he lifted his staff and then, after a moment, let it flop down. Pure pain thrummed down Alistair's leg.  

" _He_ doesn't have the mana left," Surana crowed, a surge of triumph breaking through her fatigue.

" _She_ doesn't have the skill," Amell retorted.  

"We should concentrate on helping the other forces," Cousland said, glancing back toward the battle. "Is your leg very bad?"  

"I'm not sure I can actually walk into the battlefield," Alistair admitted.  And, despite their continued insistence upon expending energy sniping at each other, he wasn't sure Amell or Surana could either.

"Maybe you two could do something other than fight," Brosca said. She clapped her hands. "Make with the magic already."  

This set up a short round of arguments, punctuated by a brief interlude of darkspawn.  Mahariel tried to pick most of them off with his bow, but Aeducan and Cousland had to keep running forth to kill any that seemed to be getting too close.  All Alistair could do was take off his boot, roll up his pant leg, and hope.  Finally, Surana was persuaded to attend to Alistair's leg, under Amell's close supervision.

"Not like that-- you'll snap it off," Amell said, as Alistair's knee began to bend in ways knees shouldn't bend.   Alistair wasn't sure if Surana was always this awful at healing or if circumstance and Amell's ringside magery combined to make her worse than she usually was.

Before Surana was halfway done, the tide of the darkspawn turned.  Through the agony of his leg, Alistair could register them closing in on the little circle of Wardens.  He thought that Mahariel, Aeducan, and Cousland might be able to hold them back a little while longer.  Tabris seemed more concerned with rubbing her hands together, staring at Alistair's leg, and saying "oh dear."  The greenish cast to her face was hopefully a trick of the dimming light.  Brosca, on the other hand, looked as though she might have wanted some snacks and a comfortable seat.

"Why's his skin going all black?" she asked, bending over Alistair's leg so that her nose was nearly touching it.

"Move--out--of the way--" Surana gasped.  

"Because Surana is incompetent," Amell said, then turned back to hovering over Surana's shoulder, criticizing her every breath.  "Could you attempt to remember _some_ of the years of instruction that have apparently been wasted on you? Even a novice would have more control."

Surana gritted her teeth and something unspeakable happened to Alistair's flesh, turning it hot and cold at the same time. _That's unusual,_ he started to think before a lance of pain stabbed through to the bone.  It hurt more than the initial break, and he only sort of managed to bite back a scream.

"Oh, _oh_ ," Tabris moaned.  Then, she threw up on Cousland's ancestral boots.  

"Look what you've done! Do you even know where these came from?" Cousland shrieked.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Tabris stuttered.  

"This is exactly what I was warning you about," Amell said to Surana.

"If you'd shut up, I could concentrate!" Surana yelled.

"That would require discipline and you've never had the patience for that--"

"Could--could someone please, just-- my leg? Heal? Oh, Maker," Alistair forced the words out.

"Do you think of nothing else?" Surana hissed at him, like wanting an end to excruciating pain was quite unreasonable. She raised her staff and juggled it around, quick and hard.  A warm ball of energy hit Alistair in the leg, which, in a flash, felt like someone had replaced all his complicated bones with an iron rod.  Still, it was an improvement from the agony.  

"Oh, always the quick-fix, I see," Amell mocked.  "As though that healing job won't give out at the first hard jostle."

Alistair struggled to sit up while they argued.  Try as he might, he couldn't help but hear snippets of the conversations going on around him.

"Couldn't you have at least tried to aim?" Cousland was saying.  

"I'm so, _so_ sorry, I'll pay for them, I'll--"

"You couldn't afford them! They're worth more than your miserable life--"

"Hey, don't those darkspawn seem to be getting closer? Can you sense them over there with your elf-intuition?" Brosca again, to a stony Mahariel.  

Alistair practiced standing; if he concentrated enough on the physical toll this took, maybe he could ignore all of his fellow Wardens.  Forever.  

Then, Aeducan's booming voice broke through like a hammer smashing a hole in a wall.  

"Stop sniveling, girl! We've wasted too much time, already. They're coming!"

Sure enough, a troop of darkspawn were converging on them, marching from the main battlefield.   _Spreading out?_ Alistair wondered.   _But why?_ Then, he shrugged it off. Who knew why darkspawn did anything?  

Alistair found that he could put some pressure on the unyielding rod he now called his leg, and he could do a hobbling half-sprint on it if he had to, but the result was not ideal.  For example, after taking off the head of the darkspawn in front of him, he could no longer swiftly pivot to take out the other darkspawn standing right behind him.  The stiffness in his leg ruined his sense of balance, made it nearly impossible for him to lower his center of gravity, and also really hurt.  

This was unfortunate especially because the other Wardens weren't much help.

Amell and Surana were upright, and that was the best he could say of them.  More than once, Alistair had to put himself between one of them and a darkspawn blade.  It was even worse when they tried to defend themselves with their staffs, because then Alistair had to concentrate on both the darkspawn and whichever mage was ineptly twirling a large piece of wood in his immediate vicinity.  The only time Amell managed to land a blow was when his staff connected with Alistair's head.  

The most able fighters were Cousland and Aeducan.  They'd clearly had some training and the kind of upbringings that Alistair guessed involved more soft beds and high living than most of the others had gotten hot meals, but their major flaw was that they wouldn't work with anyone else, and nobody else really had the skill to work with them anyway.

Mahariel and Tabris were inexperienced, to put it kindly.  Alistair suspected that, before becoming a Warden, Mahariel had never shot at anything he didn't intend to later eat.  He was too dependent on the bow, and seemed surprised that the darkspawn actually charged him instead of waiting at a polite distance for him to put an arrow through their necks.  Alistair thought that Mahariel would have done better if he'd been fighting Tabris, who sometimes apologized to the darkspawn she managed to cut down.

Then, there was Brosca, whose skill was impossible to gauge because she refused to fight unless cornered.  Once, a darkspawn aimed a blow at her head and she ducked behind Aeducan, the nearest large(er) mass.  

"Hiding, little coward?" Aeducan snapped, gutting the darkspawn like she was imagining it was Brosca.  

"I been called worse.  Never said I was a warrior. I'm a runner, not a fighter," Brosca said, still keeping behind Aeducan's protective bulk.   

Aeducan sniffed and said, "Typical casteless."

Of course, Brosca snarled, "What do you know about it?" and called Aeducan several impressive things, some of which Alistair had never heard before.  This was completely typical of the distracted interaction Alistair had now become intimately familiar with.  He might not have been a great tactician like Duncan or Loghain, but even he knew sniping at your comrades wasn't how you won battles.  

The darkspawn pushed them farther and farther from the battlefield.  Anytime Alistair thought they were holding a piece of ground, one of the other Wardens would fall back, letting a few more darkspawn move forward.

Soon, Alistair's arms ached nearly as much as his stiff leg.  As he peered out over the sea of darkspawn, he began to believe that there was no end to them, that there were only darkspawn from here to the end of the world.

"..should probably..." Mahariel said something through the clang of weapons that Alistair couldn't make out.  

"What's that?" he yelled.

"Retreat," Mahariel yelled back.  It was the loudest Alistair had ever heard him.

"No!" Cousland snapped.

"Are you a coward too, then?" Aeducan asked.  Mahariel glared at her until a darkspawn nearly beheaded him.  

"I'd rather be a live coward than darkspawn meat," Brosca said.  

"There are--" Tabris panted and paused as she speared a genlock "--an awful lot of them."

Even as they spoke they were losing more ground, more stamina, more light.  When Alistair looked up, he realized the Tower of Ishal had somehow become about the size of his pinky on the horizon.  He could barely make it out in the growing darkness.

"Staying here is idiotic," Mahariel said.  "We'll never make it."

"We can't leave the other Wardens to fight alone," Cousland said.  

"Yes, we should try and catch up with Duncan's forces," Alistair said.  "Er, wherever they are."  They would have to round back to the battlefield.  

Then the ogre stepped out in front of them. Possibly, even hopefully, it was the same one from the tower.  Alistair didn't like the idea that there were more than one.  

"That's it, I'm out," Brosca said.  She turned and ran.  Within seconds, Mahariel darted off after her, not exactly following, more like building on the same bad idea.   

"Get back here!" Cousland yelled, going after them.

"Better off without them," Aeducan growled.  Yet, she lumbered after them too, hefting her axe and muttering something about the punishment for deserters.

Half his charges were running the other way.  Alistair wasn't good at leadership. He didn't want to be the one responsible for forcing Brosca and Mahariel in line.  Yet, Duncan had left him in charge. Duncan had told him to look after the new Wardens. After this terrible battle was over, Alistair didn't want to have to explain to Duncan that he'd lost some of the new recruits on top of all the other fiascos of the day.  So, he ran after them.  

He was a bit slowed down by Amell and Surana, who seemed to be limping after him on instinct.  This did not bode well for their mental and physical health.  Alistair knew that if people were following him, it was a sure sign things had gone horribly awry.  

Brosca and Mahariel kept alternately running awkwardly side by side and then diverging, like strangers who drink at the same tavern for years but don't ever do more than make eye contact.  They were faster than Cousland and Aeducan, who were weighed down with armor and the exertions of more direct combat.  Tabris did a little better, was more able to follow their winding paths, but she didn't have the will to do anything to stop them.  As she scurried, she called "Um, excuse me--" and "don't you think we should--" but never seemed to be able to finish these thoughts.

Soon, they were all deep in the Korcari Wilds.  Brosca and Mahariel might have managed to get away if it weren't for the darkspawn trickling in from the battlefield.  Alistair didn't know how there could still be so many of them. He felt like he personally had killed more darkspawn in this one day than he'd met people in his whole life.

They were not, needless to say, at their best for this fight.  Aeducan's axe was slow and Cousland's sword swings tended to go wide.  Several times, Tabris actually dropped her sword, only managing to regain it at the last second.  Brosca still refused to fight and kept trying to run away, though her exhaustion and the darkspawn prevented her from doing more than running in circles. Mahariel occasionally fired a half-hearted arrow, but this was more to keep himself from being overtaken than an actual attempt at winning.  

Amell and Surana went to pieces like wet crackers almost immediately.  The only reason they weren't darkspawn dinner was that Alistair set himself to hovering over their unconscious bodies.  

As a whole, the group wasn't even fighting at this point.  They were mostly fleeing, and doing a bad job of it too.

Duncan never would have let this happen.

Duncan would have come up with a strategy by now.  Duncan wouldn't have let Brosca and Mahariel run off in the first place.

He felt sweat drip down the back of his neck.  

Straggling darkspawn swarmed the area. If he had to guess, he'd say they were coming in from the main battlefield.  Did that mean they were done fighting over there? Or were there just so many darkspawn that they couldn't be contained?

He scanned the Wilds for cover.  The thick mist combined with the dark made it hard to see; hopefully they could use that to their advantage.  A few dense thickets of cattails dotted the swamp, but they were so scrubby and short they couldn't provide even enough coverage for a dwarf.

 That was when the dragon showed up.

"Oh Andraste's tits, what next?" Cousland muttered.  

"Don't take the name of Andraste in vain," Amell scolded.

"In vain? There's a dragon! If ever there was a situation--"

"If we don't start fighting, we'll have to ask Andraste herself while we sit at the hand of the Maker,"  Alistair said, but was mostly drowned out by a deep roar that shook the earth.  Tremors from the dragon's footsteps reverberated up his stiff leg.

The leg started to hurt again and Amell's words came back to him: _That healing job will give out at the first hard jostle._ Alistair had been doing a bit more than jostling it over the past hour.

Suddenly, as his leg buckled beneath him, the dragon breathed a plume of fire.  That bright fire, coupled with searing pain, was the last Alistair remembered before he passed out.

 

~

 

He awoke on a straw mattress, staring at the low beams of a hut.  The room was scrupulously, almost suspiciously, clean, but rat tails hung drying from the ceiling.  A neat set of shelves stocked with jars and bottles of unknown substances stood in the corner.

When he sat up, he could see through an open doorway into another, larger room where a cauldron broiled moodily. The cauldron confirmed things.    _I am in a witch's hut_ , he thought.  He groaned, shifted, and looked down at himself, hysteria mounting.   _I am in a witch's hut with no clothes on,_ he corrected.  What now?  

Shooting to his feet, he searched for some object with which to defend himself. Even a stick would be better than nothing.   _I have to find the others and rejoin the battle_ , he thought.   _Duncan's counting on us._ Surprisingly, his leg didn't hurt at all.

"Where do you think you're going without your pants?" A dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway.

Alistair let out a small, unmanly squeak.  Frantically, he crossed his legs and shielded his crotch with his hands.   _Naked around a possible witch is not the safest state for a man_ , he decided.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said.  "Mother sent me to see if you were awake.  As you are, I suppose we can set you to work.  'Tis like a rowdy inn with all of you running about."

"But, but--"  Questions raced through his mind.  He wanted to ask " _where am I_ " or " _who are you_ " or, most importantly, " _how is the battle going?_ "  He would even have accepted " _are you a Witch of the Wilds?_ " Yet, what came out was: "What have you done with my clothes?"  It was difficult to think without any pants on.  

"Not the shiniest sword in the armory, are you?" the woman said.  She hefted the bundle of clothes she was carrying for emphasis.  "They are right here. We washed them.  Or, perhaps 'tis more accurate to say that _I_ washed them. You're welcome."

Alistair accepted the bundle with his mouth open.  

Then a crash sounded.  The woman winced.  "There they go again. Tell me, are all Grey Wardens so ill-mannered?"

"We--I--" _am not wearing pants_ , his mind suggested, unhelpfully.  Possibly, if he were less stunned, he would have been insulted.  

"Oh, I can tell you're the brains of this group," she said, with a smirk.  "I had better go and see what they've broken now."  She disappeared through the doorway.

Alistair dressed quickly once he was sure she was gone.  He noticed that the witch hadn't given him back his armor or any of his weapons.  Possibly, this was because she wanted it to be easy when she and her wicked sisters did witchy things to him.  Maybe they wanted to turn him into a frog.  Maybe they wanted to have their way with him.  Or, maybe they'd turn him into a frog _and_ have their way with him.  Hopefully not in that order.

Once again, he searched the room for potential weapons.  He found nothing but a thankfully empty chamber pot.  Hefting it above his head, he crept into the other room.

There he found not a coven of witches roasting the bodies of poor lost travelers, but several of the other Wardens standing over a lot of broken glass.

"Hey, look who's awake!" Brosca said.

"What are you doing with _that_ , exactly?" said Cousland, raising an eyebrow at the chamber pot.  

"I was, well-- never mind, ignore this," he said, flushing.  He lowered his makeshift weapon and scooted it off  into the bedroom with his boot. "What...happened, exactly?"

"It was an accident! I was startled!" Tabris said.

The witch was there too, sighing over the broken items.  "Truly, 'tis like living in a barn," she muttered.  

"I'm sorry!" Tabris squeaked. "I'll clean it up!"

Alistair grimaced.  "Not that, but how did we get here? What's happening with the battle?"

"Flemeth brought us here," Brosca said.  "She's the one that swooped in on those darkspawn... as a dragon."

Alistair looked around the witch-hut and thought that he didn't want to examine "as a dragon" too closely, or think about what this Flemeth would want from them in return.  And that name was horribly familiar... wasn't Flemeth supposed to be some kind of legendary man-eating swamp witch? Of course she was. _The last thing I needed right now was a legendary man-eating swamp witch, so clearly the world must say, "Here you are Alistair, have a legendary man-eating swamp witch._ " And... _oh no_. A horrible thought suggested itself. Flemeth had seen him naked.  He shook the thought away. _Ugh._

"And the battle?  It's over? Has anyone heard from Duncan?" Alistair asked.   _Did we win?_ he wanted to ask, but was too cowardly.

"It...didn't go well, from what I understand.  Right, Morrigan?" Cousland said, glancing at the witch.   _At least she's not Flemeth_. Alistair clung to what he was suspecting would be the only bit of good news he'd get.  

"The darkspawn were victorious," Morrigan said. "There were so many of them, we're still seeing stragglers even out here."  

Alistair went cold.  For a moment he wondered if Morrigan had cast a spell on him, but then he realized it was only good old-fashioned horror.

A million questions streamed through his mind.  How bad were the losses? Where were the survivors camped out? What of Loghain's forces? Was this all because they hadn't managed to light the beacon?  

"Duncan is going to kill me." Alistair held his head in his hands. And he'd be right to do it too.  He'd given Alistair _one_ responsibility and Alistair had, predictably, botched it.

"No need to worry over that.  Your precious Duncan is dead," Morrigan said. "None of the Wardens in the _actual battle_ survived that I know of."

"That can't be! You don't know what you're talking about!" Duncan was so strong.  If anyone could have survived the battle, he could.

Morrigan shrugged.  "What is true is true.  Denying it will not help."

"Charming as always, Morrigan," said an older woman, coming into the house.  This one was probably a witch too.  That was the kind of day Alistair was having.  

"They haven't found a... a body, though, have they?" Alistair said.  He couldn't take the word of a witch.  They had to go and try to find the other Wardens.

"While my daughter is blunt, I'm afraid she's also correct," the older woman said.  "The eight of you are the last Wardens in Ferelden."  

"Story of my life," Cousland muttered, his voice hitching.  

Alistair felt a numbness steal over him.  "There must be some mistake," he mumbled as Tabris led him out of the hut.  

Outside, Mahariel sat on a log, occasionally leaning forward to stoke a fire.  Several braces of rabbits were fanned out to his right.  According to Tabris, the hut was too small, so the majority of the Wardens had been sleeping out here.  Initially, Alistair, Amell, and Surana had all been unconscious and deemed unfit for Mahariel's makeshift campsite.  Amell and Surana had woken up before Alistair did, and they had all been waiting on him to decide what to do, Tabris explained.  

"So, we should probably get together and start thinking about what comes next.  If that's okay," Tabris said.

"What comes next, yes, "Alistair repeated, dumbly.  

Tabris continued chattering on, but he only heard about half of what she said.  

"...but Flemeth says that she saw the king struck down by an ogre, so now Loghain's got even more power because of his daughter and--"

"Of course.  Cailan's dead too.  That's the perfect way to round out the day."  This news didn't stir him as much as he thought it should.  He felt very odd, like his head was wrapped in cotton. _The last Wardens_...his mind kept echoing, as if it wasn't bad enough to hear it once. "And where is this so-called Flemeth, anyway? Off watching some more battles be lost?"

"Right here," said the older woman, appearing apparently from nowhere. Alistair jumped.

"Oh, I thought that..." he stammered.

"Not what you were expecting?" Flemeth smiled with too many teeth.  At that moment, he fully believed that she was the dragon who'd taken out all those darkspawn.  He stepped back, felt for his sword, and then remembered he didn't have it on him.

"Oh, don't be so stiff.  I'm not going to eat any of you...yet," Flemeth said.

Under her breath, Tabris moaned a little.  Flemeth laughed.  

"Not so say that a little healthy fear is unwelcome.  It keeps me young." Flemeth stared off into the swamp. Then her gaze snapped back to Alistair, like a cat contemplating a caged bird.  "But!  Houseguests grow tiresome after a few days.  Though, I might have to keep this one-- he has been useful." Flemeth patted Mahariel's head, her talon-like fingernails skimming his braids.  Mahariel looked horrified.  

Flemeth smirked. "Still, I will let you talk of your plans."  Then, she rounded on Brosca. "Except _you_.  You will put that vial in your pocket back in the house where it belongs before it explodes."

"Er, yes ser," said Brosca, who knew when she was beaten.  

"Next time, I won't be so merciful," Flemeth warned. A hint of dragon broke through in her voice. Meekly, Brosca followed her into the hut.

"Oh dear.  I hope she doesn't hold that against us," said Tabris, wringing her hands.  Alistair stood still for a moment.  The wrapped-in-cotton numbness spread over him again.  He felt dizzy and plopped down next to Mahariel.

"At least she uh, likes you? Probably it isn't a good idea to get on a witch's bad side. Or, badder side," he tried.  Mahariel looked away.  Was he blushing? For the first time, it occurred to Alistair that Mahariel was _shy_.  Lovely. If only Alistair could get some information out of him.

"Did you believe what she said about--about the battle?" He couldn't bring himself to talk about Duncan or even Cailan.  

"Can't say," Mahariel said. He started skinning a rabbit with expert precision, barely looking at it as his knife sliced down in clean, sure strokes.

"You've done that a lot, I'm guessing."  

"Back home," Mahariel said.  He didn't look up from his work, though the fluid motion of his hands said that he was probably working off of pure muscle memory.  

"Glad you're finally awake," Mahariel said, at last.  Alistair didn't think he was going to get any more out of him.

"Yes, my sentiments too," said Amell, ambling over. Surana noticed and immediately had to stick her oar in. She shot up from the log she'd been sulking against and unsuccessfully tried to shove in front of Amell.

Then, in a rush, all the other Wardens tried to fill Alistair in on the current situation, which was worse than he'd thought it would be.

"Loghain has declared us traitors apparently," said Cousland.

"If we can trust what this Flemeth says," Aeducan said.  This was a good point.  Legendary swamp witches were not known for their truthfulness.

"She did rescue us from the darkspawn," Tabris said. "And she let us stay in her house and healed our wounds."  She glanced behind her, like Flemeth might appear at any moment, for all she said she'd leave them alone. And that wasn't such a far-fetched possibility, Alistair judged.  

"She can transform into a dragon." Surana said this as if it were the highest recommendation of character.

"It's...not unimpressive," said Amell. Clearly, dragons were sufficiently interesting so as to make Amell unable to disagree with Surana.  

"Loghain can go eat nug shit," Brosca said.  "Like we ever asked to have anything to do with his lot."

"It doesn't make any sense.  How can we be traitors?" Surana turned her staff over in her hands. _Why did the mages get their weapons back?_ Alistair wondered.  "We were overwhelmed.  Yes, we didn't light the beacon, but that couldn't be helped," Surana continued.

"Would've died if we stayed. Not worth dying for a bunch of shemlen," Mahariel mumbled. Then it occurred to Alistair that Mahariel must've gotten his bow back, to be able to catch those rabbits.   _Did everyone get their weapons back but me?_ Alistair wondered.  Thinking about that was better than this painful conversation.  

But, he couldn't block it out when Cousland drew his eyebrows together and said: "We quit the battlefield.  The other Wardens were there and we abandoned them."

"We _failed_." Aeducan bit out the word like it was a personal insult.  It hit Alistair in the chest.  

"What will we do now?" Tabris asked.

"Alistair? You are our most experienced Warden," Amell said.  He nodded to him like Alistair was the Senior Enchanter, which was disturbing.

"I don't know," Alistair admitted.  "I mean, if we lost the battle, and now Loghain's declared us traitors... "  He tried to think of who would take their word against the hero of River Dane's.  He tried to push down his rising horror.  "We could go to Arl Eamon.  He raised me. He'll help us."  Eamon, that distant figure of his childhood.  He had always been fair to him when he didn't have to be. _Except of course when he shipped you off to the Chantry_ , a nagging voice in Alistair's head couldn't help but remind him.  Well, nobody was perfect.  What would the child/guardian relationship be without a betrayal or two?

"We can't do that," Surana said. "Morrigan has been getting news from town.  They say Loghain has scouts looking for us everywhere.  If Eamon raised you, Loghain will probably be watching him, hoping to catch us."

"We obviously can't stay here," Aeducan said.  

"We could if Flemeth would allow us..." Surana seemed hopeful.

"She's the Witch of the Wilds!" Alistair said, aghast.   _And there are no other Wardens..._

"She can _transform into a dragon_ ," Surana repeated, in raptures.

"There's so much we could learn," Amell muttered. "But, don't be stupid.  If you had been paying attention, you'd know that she already indicated she wants us to leave."  

"So it's Eamon or Orlais, basically," Brosca said.  

"We can talk to Loghain, or at least try to.  My--my father--" Cousland swallowed. "My father had some connections to court. It's possible I could get us an audience, a chance to explain."

"Pretty hard to explain how we seem to have just buggered off at a, whachacall it, _critical_ _moment_ ," Brosca said.  "Those noble types are all for standing your ground and waiting to die, so long as they ain't the ones dying."

Cousland shook his head. "We could at least try! Abandoning Ferelden with the Blight--"

"Yet, if we talk to Loghain and can't convince him, it will amount to the same thing!" Aeducan interrupted.

Amell frowned. "Putting it that way,  it might be more prudent to build forces against him from afar." Amell pronounced "build forces" with the enthusiasm of someone who'd read a good deal about tactics in books but had never yet been given a real opportunity to practice them.  "What do you think, Alistair? Do you know anything about the Orlesian Wardens?"

There, all around him were the faces of his fellow Wardens, trusting him to have some answers.

All he could think of was that Duncan had trusted him too.   _Well, he'll never make that mistake again, will he?_ piped up the nasty little voice in his head, making a triumphant reappearance.  That was what brought on the tears.

"Oh my, look here," said Cousland, uncomfortable.  "Try to hold it together, right?" He patted his pockets muttering, "Handkerchief, where is my handkerchief? Mother always says to carry a--" And then he froze, his face hardening.  He dropped his hands to his sides and went still.

"I, I can't believe he's really--" Alistair tried to force out, but the enormity of it washed over him like a rough sea.   _He's really dead. They're all really dead_ , he thought.  

"We have bigger problems now.  What would Duncan think of you if he saw you blubbering on like that? Stay strong for your ancestor's sake!" Aeducan said.

"I'm sorry.  It's --" A sob broke his voice.

"We don't have time for this!" Throwing up her hands, Aeducan stormed off.  

The thing was, he knew what Duncan would think of him.  And that made him want to cry even more.  

The light started to fade, bathing the hut in pink and orange.  The other Wardens wouldn't look him in the eye and he couldn't seem to stop crying.  Every time he thought he could get a hold of himself, the reality of the situation washed over him.  

He eventually got to the point where he was able to hold it back a little, but he couldn't participate in the discussions going on around him.  A far away part of him was aware the others were trying to figure out what to do next, debating where to go, but he could only sit like a stump and watch them.  They didn't understand.  They hadn't really known Duncan anyway.

Darkness fell and he found himself staring into the embers of Mahariel's fire.  The other Wardens were sitting around, morose, lost in their own thoughts.  Aeducan was practicing with her axe, performing basic thrusts and swings she'd probably mastered before he'd grown his first chin hair.  

"Ain't you done moping yet?" Brosca sniffed, as she walked past him to her bedroll.

Alistair could only shrug.   _Sorry, I can't exactly get up and dance the Remigold when Duncan's dead,_ he might have said.  Or, he could have quipped that there was nothing like a good mope to keep you in fine spirits.  But, he didn't seem to have the energy for it.  His face felt tight and stiff.  He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.  

Hours passed.  Mahariel doused the fire and curled up in the branches of a stout tree.  It was Alistair and Tabris now, alone with the cold ashes.  Alistair, alone with his thoughts of cold Duncan.  He thought about how Duncan and Cailan and everyone were probably still out there at Ostagar, their bodies picked over by darkspawn. The image of this would not leave him alone.

Then, out of the darkness came Tabris's voice. "It _is_ okay to cry when you lose someone," she whispered, fiercely.  She cast a glance at Aeducan's slumbering form, then quickly dropped her gaze.  "If you can't cry then, when can you?" She didn't seem to be talking to Alistair.  He wasn't even sure if he was supposed to have heard her because she was staring at the dirt, miles away.  

 

~

 

Late that night, the nightmares came, because apparently the events of the day hadn't been traumatic enough.  He'd hoped to escape them because it took him so long to go to sleep on the damp ground. Not that he'd been sorry to let Morrigan have her bed back.  That he had been unconscious in the bed of a witch was a fact he didn't want to contemplate.  It seemed that there were a lot of things he couldn't think about all of a sudden. They'd piled up while he wasn't paying attention.    

They swirled around his head, followed him into his dreams.  The Archdemon snapped Grey Warden necks like they were reeds.  Too many of the Wardens had Duncan's face.  

He woke, gasping.  Looking around the campsite, he could see that nobody else was asleep either.  Flemeth's hut brooded behind them, a dark blot on the swampy land.

Surana rolled over and put her hand to her head.  Cousland picked imaginary dirt off his sleeves.  

"That, that isn't going to happen every night is it?" Cousland said, weakly.

"It had better not." Aeducan glared, eyes darting around as if she could find the Archdemon hiding in the shadows and strike it down with the force of her rage alone.  

Panting, Mahariel slumped against the base of the tree he'd been sleeping in.  From the way he held himself, still and disheveled, Alistair guessed he'd fallen out.  Meanwhile, Brosca seemed to be attempting to make some kind of bunker with her bedroll, looking up distrustfully at the sky.  Next to Brosca, Tabris wasn't exactly crying, but her eyes watered, and every few moments she gave a great apologetic sniff.

"If that's what we're up against, we'll need to get into better shape." Aeducan looked at Tabris.  "I'll spar with you.  With some luck and some practice, you won't be _immediately_ eaten."

Tabris couldn't seem to speak, but nodded gravely, like she understood Aeducan was being kind in the only way she could let herself.

The mages seemed to take it a bit better than everyone else.

"Is it common to  have dreams about the Archdemon or was that only a standard demon temptation dream?" Surana asked.  

"You found that tempting?" Amell sneered. "But of course you would, you just _trust_ anybody who--"

"If you never have any ideas of your own, you can't blame me when I--" Surana interrupted.  

"It, it is a Warden thing, isn't it?" Tabris put in, almost too softly to be heard over Amell and Surana's bickering.

"There are a lot of permanent changes that come with being a Grey Warden," Alistair said, at last. "Seeing the Archdemon is part of that.  We have to stop the Blight and then it... won't be so bad."  Usually, anyway.  As time passed, he could feel the dreams picking up momentum.   Tonight was particularly bad, but he had a feeling worse would be to come.  He didn't want to say so. Tabris's face looked so tired and expectant, like she wanted someone to tell her it would be okay.  

He didn't know how to reassure her, had never learned the steady confidence that Duncan projected so easily. So, he turned away and listened to the other Wardens.

"But how do we stop the Blight? That's the part I'm not clear on," Brosca said.

"Isn't it obvious? We have to kill that thing," Aeducan growled.

"And the legions of darkspawn surrounding it," Cousland reminded. "We'd need an army."

"Nobody's gonna help the likes of us," Brosca said, with bitter experience.  

Tabris bit her lip and nodded.  "Our word over Loghain's? We'll get imprisoned for it, at best."  This was disheartening from Tabris, who always tried so hard to put on a brave face.  Sure, she wasn't any good at it, but she did at least bother trying. Now, she looked utterly hopeless.

"We could explain about the dreams..." Amell said.  "Maybe there are some books about it that could prove there's a Blight."

"We don't know where any of those books would be and it's probably all wrapped up in trade secrets," Surana said. "Added to that, how do we prove our behavior on the battlefield was...accidental? You can't prove a negative."

"Who listens to traitors, anyway?" Aeducan said.  Cousland gritted his teeth.

"They wouldn't risk their precious noble necks, not even when the darkspawn get flowing," Brosca continued.  Her words surged with grim satisfaction, in the same way Alistair had heard old soldiers talking about wartime.  

"Says the one who was first to run away at a time of danger," said Cousland

Brosca shrugged. "Me, I can scrap if I got to.  But, where I'm from, if you fight every rutting duster, you'd be fighting 'til the Deep Roads freeze over.  Better to run when you can, and save your fire for the times you can't duck out."  

"Exactly what a coward would say.  And yet, the time to stand and fight never comes for your kind, does it?" Aeducan sighed.

As Aeducan and Brosca fought, Alistair could just make out Mahariel mumbling, "Their fault if they don't listen.  Be dancing to a different tune when the Archdemon is flying over _their_ homes."

Alistair stood and walked a few paces into the cool of the Wilds.  Soon, he was far enough away that he could still see the other Wardens, but their voices were muffled.  Duncan would have known what to say to them.  He always had the right words.  When he spoke, people listened.

_Eamon or Orlais.  With any luck, they'll work it out amongst themselves._ He had no idea what would be right, had a knack, it seemed, for getting things wrong.  

     He was jerked from his thoughts by a swat to his side.  Whirling around, he saw Brosca, shuffling her feet.

"So, I know I ain't exactly up on this surface business, but you're not a bad guy and I feel like I gotta say something," Brosca said, in a rush.  "See, these people need somebody to tell them what to do and _soon_ , or it's gonna get ugly.  I saw it all the time in Dust Town, when the cartels started getting restless.  Every cartel needs a leader, yeah?"

"Wait, no! Bad things happen when I lead--" Brosca cut him off with a raised palm.  

"You got to watch for Aeducan and Cousland. They're not gonna follow you easy, but they'll do it if you show some backbone.  You're the only one who knows anything about being a Warden, so you're the one that's got to think of something. Plus, since you got seniority, you're a neutral choice and they won't have to duke it out to save their rutting honor."

"But--I'm not good at--"

"You better get good then," said Brosca.  "No other way."  She walked away to bother Mahariel about starting fires. Apparently the Dalish built one differently than the dwarves. In her absence, he was left alone with the night-noises of the swamp, the frogs and the crickets calling out to their kind, getting on with their straightforward business.

Alistair thought about what Brosca said.  Maker knew he didn't want to take on that responsibility.  For all he cared, Cousland and Aeducan could fight over the right to it.   _But is that what Duncan would have wanted?_ It could tear them apart.

He remembered how Duncan had placed his hand on his shoulder.  The way he'd said, "I'm leaving this to you."  Alistair had protested being left out of the fight, but Duncan said, "It's an important job.  It's not always brute force that overcomes the enemy.  Strategy and teamwork will win the day more often than not."

He churned it over in his mind until he fell asleep.  

 

~

 

In the morning, he woke feeling like the Archdemon had been using his head for a chew toy. It didn't help that everyone else was already awake and grumbling.    

"You can't stay here forever," Flemeth reminded him as the Wardens started in on breakfast.

"Thank goodness," Morrigan muttered.  

"We're working on it," he said. Thankfully, the two of them didn't stay to eat.  Alistair had enough to worry about without thinking of what Witches of the Wild ate.

As breakfast progressed, Alistair found himself getting more and more tense.  There was an unseasonable chill in the air and every time the too-cold breeze blew across him, it felt like fingers poking him in the ribs, forcing him to take sides.  He tried to eat slowly, put off the point where they were going to have to talk for as long as possible.  But, soon enough, all the food was gone.  

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Brosca belched.  "Good grub.  Now, let's make some decisions." She looked meaningfully at Alistair.  He dropped his gaze, pretending to be very interested in the way Mahariel saved up the rabbit bones for later use.  

"Fine.  We should send some letters to Loghain," Cousland said.

"Yes, and wait here for him to send his soldiers," Aeducan scoffed.  "Wake up. We cannot answer for our actions at Ostagar.  How could we? Even _I_ can't bear to show my face to honest stone when I think about it.  So, there is no choice. Unless we'd like to spend the Blight in prison or on our burial pyres, we have to go to Orlais."

Naturally, Cousland argued.  "But the Blight has started here in Ferelden. Running away to Orlais will only make us look more guilty.  Also, in case you dwarves haven't noticed down there in your hole, Orlais isn't exactly on the friendliest terms with us."

"But Grey Wardens are surely considered neutral in that sort of political issue?" Surana asked.

"Nobody's neutral in politics," Amell corrected, sounding like he was quoting directly from a book.

"Nonetheless, there are Wardens in Orlais that are honor-bound to fight with us!" Aeducan snapped, then turned her glare on Alistair, who studiously stared at the bits of gristle from his breakfast. Brosca jabbed him in the ribs.  He pretended it was a bee sting.  

_Just a bee sting.  Just a bee sting from an annoying, four-foot-tall bee that wants me to get everyone killed by being the leader,_ he thought to himself, grimly.  Brosca prodded him again, harder this time.  Her fingers were like fat sharp sticks.

The yelp he gave as those fat sticks dug into his flesh and probably bruised his organs made Cousland turn his way.

"You're not so sure of Orlais, either, are you Alistair?" Cousland said.  Clearly, he was vastly misinterpreting Alistair's pained expression.

"Um, well--" Alistair felt Aeducan's disapproval like it emitted physical heat.  

"Unlike the rest of you, I've _been_ to the Orlesian court and I can say that they're a bunch of self-involved, foppish do-nothings who are as likely to stab us in the back as they are to wish us good morning," Cousland said.

At the word "foppish" Mahariel rolled his eyes. Alistair could hear Brosca's intake of breath as she failed to hold back one of her braying donkey laughs.  

"What?" Cousland glared at Brosca.  "Do you have anything important to add?"

"No, please go on with your rant about how even other nobles think nobles are useless. Don't mind me." Brosca waved him off.  

"I generally try not to, but the smell is hard to ignore," Cousland said.  Brosca tensed and so did Aeducan -- Alistair guessed it was on the off-chance that Cousland was insulting dwarves in general and not just Brosca.

"Maybe we should make out a list of the good points on both sides," Tabris put in, too brightly.  Everyone stared at her.  She spoke more quietly.  "If that's okay.  My uncle used to do it."  

"And I'm sure that helped him decide which chickens to sell at market or other such trifles, but this is a serious problem and we need _informed_ opinions," Cousland said.  Tabris wilted.  Ignoring her, Cousland looked directly at Alistair, a you're-the-most-seasoned-Warden-we've got look.  And wasn't that ridiculous? _Of course, the only time I'm the one that knows the most is when everyone else is dead_.  A hard knot loosened in his chest, threatening to let a wave of sobs break free. He stuffed it down as best he could, hunching over in his seat.

"Exactly," Aeducan said. "That rules out nearly everyone here."  Her tone made it clear that she considered herself the sole exception.

Amell and Surana simultaneously bristled.

"I'll have you know--" Amell started, while at the same time Surana began with, "My education has been incredibly thorough," and then Tabris was saying something like, "I'm sorry, I know I don't know anything much, but I was trying to help and..." and this only made Cousland and Aeducan talk louder, both of them blaring their points at top volume and Alistair wanted to block everyone out, curl up in his bedroll, and wait for the Blight to be over or the world to end, whichever came first.  

Right now, that second one was looking more likely.

"Let's hear what Alistair has to say," Brosca yelled, over the noise.  She had to yell it several times before the rest of them either heard or decided they cared that they heard.  But eventually, she must've gotten through to them because everyone shut up.  For a moment, even the hard-scrabble screeching of the Wilds birds seemed to have stopped.  There was silence, which was bad because it left time for Alistair to think.

_I want this not to be my problem,_ he thought, struggling beneath the weight of everyone's attention.  

"Well?" Aeducan said, turning red.  Her axe glinted at her side. _Don't make me pick_.  He could strangle Brosca, he really could.   _If only someone else could_...and then an idea struck him.  

"I think we should go to Orlais," he blurted. Several people started to argue, but he cut them off, speaking quickly.  "There are other Wardens there.  They'll hear our side of the story and we won't have to risk running into Loghain's troops.  Maybe we can even get word to Eamon from there, and at least we can have a chance of organizing some kind of force to stop the Blight without getting arrested ourselves."   _And by "we", I mean the Orlesian Warden-Commander.  It won't be my problem anymore._

"Sounds good to me," said Brosca, looking pleased.  Alistair still couldn't quite breathe freely.  

He looked around at the other Wardens.  

"At least you see sense," Aeducan muttered.  He wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to Brosca or both of them.  

As it turned out, Tabris was willing enough to go along with the decision (or, honestly, willing enough to go along with _anything_ ), and Mahariel seemed to have no opinion one way or the other.  Surana still wanted to stay with Flemeth, but Amell pointed out that was ridiculous, and even she had to agree once everyone else piled on.  It was Cousland that Alistair worried the most about.  Whatever Brosca said, Alistair thought Cousland would fight him for the control that his birthright and his training and his shiny centuries-old armor made him so much more deserving of than Alistair.  

Cousland drew himself up.  "Am I outnumbered, then?" he said, in a dangerous way that made Alistair wish he still had his sword.

"Maybe you can write to Loghain from Orlais?" Tabris asked.  Cousland paused and furrowed his brow.   _Tension broken.  Thank you, Tabris._

"Yes," Cousland admitted.  "And...I know some clean places to stay in Orlais." He looked around the neat campsite with a curl of the lip.  Mahariel huffed, but didn't say anything.  How shocking.    

"There's that settled," Brosca said.  When no one was paying attention, she gave Alistair a hard clap on the back that he thought was meant to be celebratory but felt more like being kicked by a small horse.  

Finally able to breathe again, Alistair looked around the campsite at the little group. Maybe there wasn't any Duncan, but there were still Grey Wardens.  There was still the Blight.  

He didn't know if they could make it all the way to Orlais without tearing each other to pieces.  But, he supposed they could try.

One good thing about the Blight: It brought people together.

 


End file.
